


Meet Me Again in Bangkok

by hobieye



Category: TharnType the Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Existential Angst, Healing, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Seo's an Idol!, Seven Years Later, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, There's a wedding somewhere, Unresolved Romantic Tension, oh the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobieye/pseuds/hobieye
Summary: Hello Tharn...It's been a while.Seven years, to be exact.
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 42
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**BE MINDFUL OF THE TAGS, THEY WILL BE UPDATED.**

_**October 2020** _  
_**Central Bangkok, Thailand** _

The breeze that rang steadfast between the billi trees released a saccharine scent throughout the humidity of a Bangkok Hospital. It was something Type had grown accustomed to over the years.

The plaque on his door was a testament to the time he had spent at the hospital, both in and out of residency. In Thai script, it had his name and below, a slot that read; ‘Exercise Physiologist.’

He stirred his black-as-night coffee with a communal teaspoon and scrolled through his phone for what little of his break he had left. Type’s routinely cycle consisted of a 6:30 alarm, work, more work and less often than not, sleep. It had forced him to come to terms with what 28 felt like: Not much different to 27.

He checked his watch. It was almost time.

“Type!”

There it was. The grey dusting in his otherwise monotonous life.

His friend barged through the door with little care, letting the doorstopper do its job poorly, another dark scruff on the otherwise white, clinical walls.

Knowingly, Type set his mug down with a sigh.

“What, ‘No?”

“What do you mean ‘ _what_ ,’ I called you three times today and you didn’t pick up once.”

Three times? Usually it was four.

He rolled his eyes, “If this is about your bowel movements, I don’t want to hear it.”

Techno spluttered, “It’s most definitely not!”

Type ignored him, “The desk ladies are starting to get pissed at me for letting you in, you know,” he added before sitting by his desktop, searching for his next appointment.

Techno edged closer to Type till he came to a halt by his desk.

Type sighed in annoyance. “I’m busy. I don’t know how you’re _not_ , you work at the ministry. You should probably stop telling people about that by the way, they’ll stop believing you with the amount of time you spend here.”

Type finally looked up with an uninterested face.

Techno’s beady eyes stared back at him, motionless. It sent a wave of goosebumps over his skin. “ _Ai_! What do you want?”

Techno broke the eerie stillness by sticking his bottom lip out. “Type,” he dragged on, “Do you remember P’Seo?”

“Yes… why?” Type cautioned, still reeling a little from his friend’s obscure actions. “Didn’t he move to Korea?”

Techno hummed, slowly reaching for the clipboard on Type’s desk.

“Well, he’s coming back tonight…”

“Oh?”

Techno guarded himself with the clipboard, bracing himself for his reaction. “And I might have already told everyone you were meeting up with us.”

Type’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Are you _serious_?”

Techno’s head peeked out from behind his main line of defense. “Yes?”

Type yanked the clipboard from his hands and raised it above Techno’s head. In a swift motion, he set it on his desk. Nonetheless, Techno kept his hands over his head, protecting his only apparent asset – a fat ego.

Type glared at his friend, before brushing past him. “You know I don’t do gatherings.”

“Oh please! Type, you have to start going out again. This isn’t _you_.”

He bristled, grabbing his access card and lanyard. “Really, Techno?” He let out a breath, “Whatever, I’m not going — tell P’Seo I said hello, though.”

Type swung the door open before whipping around, “on second thought, don’t — just tell him I’m dead or something.”

“Type.”

“I’m running late.”

“You’re definitely not.”

Techno’s words fell on deaf ears.

Type slipped the lanyard around his neck before cocking a brow at Techno. “Well? Are you going to leave? I have my rounds to do.”

Techno rolled his eyes. “You know why I’m asking you this.”

There it was. The lingering tension he had tried to avoid from the beginning of the conversation.

“Come on, just a couple of drinks and then you can go and do whatever else you do on a Friday night.”

Nothing. He didn’t have plans on a Friday night or even a Saturday night. And Techno was well aware of that fact.

Techno pleaded with him. “It’s going to get weird if you aren’t there.”

“It’s going to get weird whether I’m there or not.”

“So you should go anyway?” Techno tried.

Type sighed, “I’m not paying for anything.”

The air lightened as Techno cracked a smile. “Ayy, that’s my best boy.”

Type whipped his head around. “Don’t even try calling me that again and get the hell _out_ of my office before I kick your ass out.”

Techno only laughed at him. ‘Oh please, we’re adults, Type.”

Type stared at him.

“It seems I was very wrong about that statement. I’m out.”

Type watched Techno’s retreating form skipping down the hallway before he noticed the nurses working at the front desk, staring wide-eyed at his behavior. His smile beamed a million watts, “don’t mind us, we were just talking about his bowel movements. He's been shitting himself a lot, lately.”

That afternoon, after completing his rounds – which consisted of regulars; two old men with stiff joints, and some soccer players from the local team – he drove to the same bar he and Techno always had drinks at. It was near the Ministry of Public Health, so they knocked off some of Techno’s tab.

In the heat of the bar, groups gathered with iced beers to their lips, more tipsy than not. Type had his own set of drinking buddies who he spotted across the room. He wasn’t sure what else to call them, because most were just that: drinking buddies. No name, no number. A couple he was on a first-name basis with. Though from school, it was really just Techno and him. Champ still came around, he noticed as he approached their table.

Type realised that their otherwise mundane hub was unnaturally packed for some reason. After sliding his way through, he found a free spot next to the man at the centre of it all. He had blue hair and an array of earrings.

With his back to Type, the man talked animatedly with the group around him.

_“So it’s true – they really make you dye your hair before a comeback?”_

The man laughed. “Sort of, they give us a box of dye at our company if you’re going to debut, it’s kind of like a present.”

"So, you're going to _debut?"_

"Guess my the blueberry on my head must've given it away."

Type gasped, “P’Seo?”

Champ hushed him, “not so loud, he goes by MX now.”

“And they actually did that to his hair?”

Techno snickered behind him, “he looks like Sonic.”

One of the girls handed Seo a phone, “could I please have your LINE, then, _oppa_?”

A chorus of hoots erupted from the crowd as more and more numbers were directed his way.

Seo turned down the multiple LINE IDs being shoved in his face with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I can’t accept these – I won’t actually be here for that long.”

One of the guys, Chaiyo, piped in, “yeah, this guy’s hopping on the next flight to Korea after that wedding!”

The girl whined, “oh, it’s not _your_ wedding, is it?”

Chaiyo chuckled, “no way! It was that guy Techno was talking about before, someone called Korn? Torn? I can’t remember.”

A tidal wave of emotions washed over Type. It was a hunch, really, nothing more, and yet, with the alchol-fuelled curiosity, he acted upon it.

His mouth was dry as he croaked out: “Thorn. It’s P’Thorn, isn't it?”

Chaiyo clicked his fingers, “that’s the one!”

If only the boy knew the weight of his words, it was the beginnings of a domino game.

Type heard Techno curse under his breath. “ _Shit, Type_ –”

He was interrupted by one of the older guys on the table who started waving the hoard away, “Excuse me! We’re trying to watch the match here!”

A new round of discussion started as Type spaced out a little.

_“We should probably go to their next game – it’s next month, isn’t it?”_

_“I’m already getting tickets! It’s gotta be good with that lineup.”_

_“Next month? But that’s November.”_

Champ frowned, “yeah, that’s around P’ Thorn’s wedding. You’ve got to be careful planning things around then.”

Type gripped the can of beer in his hand tightly, refusing to look at Techno.

Seo eventually noticed him, morose and all. “What the hell, Type! Say hello to a stranger, will you?”

Perhaps on a better day, Type might have reacted in the manner that he was supposed to. But in the bitter moment, he accepted the fist-bump and winding hug that came his way with a blank expression. His mind was preoccupied, stuck between thinking at both a million miles an hour or not at all.

“You know I was going to go to that game – I would have asked you to come but P’Thorn went ahead and got engaged, right?”

He forced himself to laugh, albeit, like a scoff, “Yeah, must be pretty inconvenient.”

Seo seemed oblivious to his demeanor, "apparently the bride listened to my music! P'Thorn wants me to play at the wedding, I was so surprised when he told me he was getting married, I mean, weren't you?"

It was P'Thorn, he wanted to say, why would anyone be surprised? His face belonged on a family lifestyle magazine. Instead, Type shrugged, "I suppose."

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Chaiyo cocked his head to the side. “Wait. Are you even going this thing?”

Seo appeared impervous to his silence. “What are you saying - he can't _not_ go – P’Thorn’s practically family by now, isn’t he?”

And just like that, all eyes were on him. His neck flushed a deep red either from the alcohol or pure chagrin. He couldn’t tell.

Shit.

“Actually, I didn’t even know he was getting married.” Type shrugged the stares off before tipping his drink back.

Even the sound of the barman cleaning glasses could be heard through the silence.

With a cough, Champ managed to break the uncomfortable moment. “Well, I, for one am starving – anyone want chicken?”

Welcoming the awkwardness away, Techno raised his wallet in the air, “don’t worry about the tab. I’m paying!”

He could still sense Seo’s eyes on him.

As a manner of orders came through and everyone became more focused on the sauces they wanted, Type found himself walking away. He needed air.

It was chilly outside the bar. But as were most nights in Bangkok. He shrugged his jacket tighter around himself and continued towards his car.

Techno ran after him. “Wait, Type! Wait!”

Type considered doing so, even stopping on the sidewalk for a bit. But he was pissed at Techno and he wasn’t ready to have this argument. Not with logical statements, at least.

“Stop following me, I’m going home.”

“Type! I’m _sorry_.”

Type felt something heated bubble inside of him. Letting out a huff, he whipped his head around. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Techno looked on edge. “I was trying not to make you feel hurt again.”

Type exploded, “you’re my friend! You were supposed to tell me these things! It doesn’t matter what my fucking reaction is.”

Techno hunched over in exasperation, “Yes it does! Because I know you’ll react like _this_.”

“Like _what_?”

“A kid!”

Type reeled. “ _What_?”

Techno looked ready to pull his hair out in frustration. “I can’t even bring up _his_ name – how would you have felt if I told I was going to his brother’s wedding?”

Type couldn't answer him, so he fired back. "Even Champ knew! Why does _Champ_ know something that I don't?"

Techno looked at him, nonplussed. "He's -" Techno stopped, "Why does it even matter, Type?"

Ignoring Type's unresponsive expression, Techno continued on. “Every time. Every single _time_ , it’s like I censor myself around you.”

Type kicked at the pavement, “shut up.”

Techno huffed, condensation rising into the chilly night air. “You know he’s coming back right? That's why you're being like this. You can’t keep acting like doesn’t ex-”

Type stops him before he crosses a line that he’s left in place for many years.

“I’m fucking tired Techno, I -" he let out a breath, "I want to go home.”

Techno chewed on the inside of his cheek before giving up. “I'm sorry.”

The two men stared at each other, not in resentment, but agony – it was painful and he had to walk away before it became a rerun of every other fight whose origins were much like this.

“Get home safe.”

Type didn’t answer.

It was midnight by the time Type kicked his shoes off at his condo. The place was modest, not too small and it had everything he needed. Which, at that point of his life, consisted of a beer fridge and a bed.

Type didn’t bother turning the lights on as he threw himself onto his bed.

When had he become like this?

He couldn’t remember. Maybe because he didn’t want to. It was easier this way, he thought. He shouldn't let his mind wander, it never boded well.

Yes, it was easier. 

Something was empty inside of him, and no matter how many walls he put up, they were made of paper – built to be broken in. It was the consequence of making promises that couldn't be fulfilled.

“I hate you.” Type said into the blank face of the ceiling above him.

Home, he thought. It truly had become a place, rather than a person.

\- ✠ -

_**BKK Airport, Thailand** _

There was an array of screens with arrival and departure times on the outer wall of the airport that Thorn had been waiting at for the past half hour.

He was here for a passenger of TG6093: A flight from LA to Thailand with a stopover somewhere near Taiwan.

Several people walked out with baggage and suitcases trailing behind them. Each looking more like the traveler he was here for than the last. It was something with the Americanised style of clothing: bold and forward. 

A man stepped out of the terminal wearing more Valentino than he’d seen in all of Bangkok. His face was obscured with a pair of sunglasses from a foreign brand.

Though that didn’t stop Thorn from recognising him.

“Welcome home, little brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

_**October 2020** _   
_**Silom, Bangkok, Thailand** _

The nauseating headache that Type woke up with nearly sent him straight back to sleep. He let out a groan and with much reluctance from his arms, he reached around the bed to find his phone.

The glare almost sent him blind, “oh _fuck_ , that hurt.”

Three in the afternoon, great.

His throat felt parched and he was still in the clothes he wore last night. Type was glad he couldn’t smell himself. In lethargy, Type dragged his feet to the shower.

He searched for hangover pills afterwards, towel still damp around his shoulders. The cabinet above his sink turned up empty handed. The packages only held bare capsules.

With a sigh, Type emptied the packages in the kitchen bin.

The sound of the automated lock of the front door unlocking echoed in the silent apartment.

He didn’t really have a reason to be alarmed. The only person that had a copy of his card was the same one that had bought him back here, countless times when he was drunk and minutes from passing out.

Techno entered the condo with bowls of _jok_ balancing on his arms.

Type stared at him.

“Don’t just stand there – help me.”

He leant over the kitchen with a groan, gathering the shopping bags to his chest. They were still warm, he realised with a pang in his chest, Techno had made it himself.

Techno looked around his condo in distaste, “are you batman? You really need to open your curtains.”

“Why can’t I be? I have the looks.”

“No, what you’re going to get is borderline heliophobia.”

Techno ran the length of the curtains to the side, sweeping the fabric up and stuffing it behind the couch. “There,” he smiled, “now you have light.”

“I don’t think I need any more vitamin D.”

Techno glared at him.

“But, thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” he sang sweetly before leaning on the kitchen counter, watching Type drink the rice congee with a fervour.

It tasted good. Well, about as good as someone who hadn’t tasted solid food in fifteen hours could get.

Techno pulled a face, “that’s right keep drinking it, don’t mind my spit.”

Type would spat some in his friend’s face, but he was too busy inhaling the broth. When he finally set the bowl down with a satisfied burp, he met Techno’s face - riddled with judgement.

Techno scrunched up his nose. “That’s disgusting, Type, at least _try_ and have some manners.”

“Now you know how I feel when you talk about you shitting schedule.”

“Someone really needs to put a bar of soap in your mouth,” he huffed before helping Type pack away the remaining side dishes.

With a silence growing between them, Type spoke. “You know about yesterday, I’m – I overreacted.”

Techno snorted, “You think? I don’t mind, though, I’ve known you long enough to know that I won’t get a sorry from you – not in this life, anyway.”

“It’s just who I am,” Type tried.

Techno pulled out a mug from the cupboard, inspecting the state of it. “I know, that’s why I understand you.” It was the reason they had gotten along since high school. Techno was really the only one that could deal with his southern temper. And in return, Type dealt with Techno turning the aircon up to the highest mode – even when he could barely deal with monsoon seasons.

“I still want to ask you something, about… it.”

Techno was in the process of making a tea for himself, “Thorn, P’Thorn’s wedding – you can say it, God won’t punish you.”

Type pursed his lips to stop the words from firing out.

“Are you wondering why he invited me?”

Type hummed, waiting for Techno’s answer with his fingers tapping beats on the counter.

“It wasn’t to spite you, if that’s what you were thinking,” he slipped the teabag into his tea. “His little sister needed a medical certificate done for some visa a couple of years back and he asked me to expedite it – I think this is way of thanking me.”

“Oh,” Type said, letting out a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding in, “well, thanks, that’s all I wanted to know.”

“I’m not finished yet.” Techno pressed on, “you asked me about Champ yesterday – he’s just my plus one. I would have asked you, but obviously, considering the circumstances…”

“Yeah. The circumstances.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. “But ‘No, aren’t people, y’know, going to say things if you bring a guy as your plus one?”

Techno shrugged, “it’s not like they’ll know he’s my plus one – we’re not going to dress up in matching suits and skip down the aisle. And you’ve said it yourself, we’ve only ever looked like friends.”

Type frowned, “because that’s all you are.”

“Yup,” Techno gulped under Type’s intense gaze, “just buddies from school.”

“You’d better be.”

Later, as Techno made himself comfortable on his couch, with his odd choice of a Netflix show and fresh tea, Type decided to take out the bins.

“I’m changing the show when I get back!” He called out.

“Uh huh, whatever,” Techno passed off his comment with a cackle at something on TV. “Close the door before you break the AC!”

Type rolled his eyes before slamming the door shut. He was immediately hit with wave of humidity from the east side of the balcony. The peak humidity hours had shortened considerably during these months, and he welcomed what was left as he tried not to breathe in the smoke from the tenant above him. Type coughed, he really had gotten a room on the worst floor.

The sun set early these days, he realised as he took the stairs. The horizon glimmered a deep red in the distance, falling lower with each level he passed.

The bin collection pit in the basement had been absolutely rancid lately, Type assumed it was because of the rain that came in the mornings mixing in the sewage lines outside.

_Crunch._

Type turned his head.

It had sounded like a branch snapping. But in a metropolitan condo like this, he’d be lucky if he even saw a cactus.

He paused a moment, not hearing anything more - Type shrugged it off. He placed his bags in the overflowing collection pit with a grunt. Pseudo-gagging once before wiping his hands on his track pants and bounding up the stairs.

_Crunch. Crunch._

\- ✠ -

Every second week, on Sunday afternoons, most of the hospital staff had half days – night shift or day, though there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Type, though, belonged to the small group practicing in his profession. So, he often found himself with a coffee to his lips to keep himself awake during the night shifts that started early in the mornings. More times than not, the coffee was brewed by a nurse who couldn’t give two shits about whether she had dropped a salt or sugar cube into his mug.

Fatigue certainly did a lot to Type.

That’s why he was wondering why a high school girl was waiting outside the examination room when he returned from the break room.

Her uniform skirts were blue, different to the standardised black and white he was accustomed to. She had a backpack slung over her shoulder. Was she a patient?

She stared at him, and then the name card on his coat.

“It’s you.”

He hadn’t known someone that was anywhere near school aged since Technic graduated. So he bought out his patient roll, flicking through pages to see whether there was any record of a teenage girl for tonight’s examinations.

There wasn’t.

When he looked up, the girl continued staring at Type a while before he clicked his fingers in her face.

_“Hello?”_

She seemed to finally snap out of it, gasping. “Oh, of course, you don’t remember me.”

Type sighed in irritation, he decided he wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with patients from the mental ward.

“We don’t even know each other. Why should I remember you?”

She scrambled for something in her backpack, “I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re Type, right?” she shoved a photo into his hands.

It was a polaroid, the date stamped on the bottom was seven years ago. It was of a recital hall. He was in it, standing in front of a piano. There was a little girl next to him, smiling with a full set of teeth.

As he lowered the picture, the resemblance set in. As did the memories.

“Thanya?” He croaked.

The blurred vision he had of a little girl morphed into one of a lady. She smiled at him, almost in relief. “See? You do know me.”

“Wh-what — why are you here?”

She reached over and nudged his thumb to the side, revealing a face he wasn’t sure he’d see again.

“Because you dated my brother.”

It was him. In the back, it really was Thanya’s brother.

“You know who he is.”

He did. And as much as he would like to pretend that he didn’t, that man’s face won’t leave his life. It fucking haunted him.

Type’s expression morphed into something blank. “Don’t do things like this again. You need to leave.”

Thanya’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What? But you just –”

Type brushed past her. “You shouldn’t come here again.” He clicked the door shut behind him.

He felt his heart hammer in his chest as he leant against the door, waiting for her footsteps to walk in the opposite direction.

Thanya spoke in a quiet voice.

“I just wanted to meet you. He talks so much about you.”

Type’s eyes burned with the threat of tears. It hurt.

Finally, he heard footsteps walking away from the door.

He rubbed at his eyes again. Beating at his heart in an attempt to stop the ache.

He still _talked_ about him.

And Type couldn’t even think about his face.

He wiped the mixture of fluids on his coat sleeve, staining it.

It was then that he realised, he still had the photo.

She had looked so hopeful.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, he really was a jackass.

He couldn’t keep this. He had to give it back.

Type checked the clock on the wall, it had only been five minutes. He had time. She could still be outside.

He tore through the door, interrupting the nurses sleeping on duty and ran out, stuffing the picture in his pocket.

He could do this.

When Type arrived at the steps of the main entrance doors, he spotted what he hoped to be Thanya’s back, slipping into a car.

He called out her name.

But it wasn’t her that turned around. It was the man in the driver’s seat.

He stepped out.

Type’s breath hitched. There he was.

The man he had loved since he was eighteen.

And seven years later, time had done nothing.

“Tharn,” he breathed, as if he could hear him say his name for the first time in many years.

Maybe because he could.

His hair was swept back now, face hardened and eyes deep set. He looked handsome. Perhaps he had always been.

And suddenly, the world around him fell muted. Tharn’s eyes met his.

“Type.”

The congested traffic, street vendors, and everything that wasn’t them came to a halt.

He felt paralysed as Tharn climbed the stairs to him. This moment in his life was unavoidable. It was a fate created by his younger self, before he knew right from wrong.

Before he knew love from not.

And like all those years ago, they stood face to face again – against everything else that ever existed.

Neither could speak at first, only staring at each other.

Everything was silent because two people met again for the first time, in the backdrop of Bangkok’s inky sky.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

Type still had his hands buried deep in the pockets of the lab coat. He wondered what he must look like to Tharn right now. A mess? Probably.

When the silence became unbearable, Type realised they both just craved what time had robbed of them. Each other. For what purposes, he wasn't sure.

But that fire, the same fire that had fuelled all those words that night still remained. Type wasn't a forgive-and-forget person, and the man that stood in front of him was no exception.

Type cleared his throat, “It’s been a while.”

Tharn’s lips quirked upwards a little, “I couldn’t tell.”

“You look good,” he added on.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I meant in the coat – it’s new.”

Type almost called him an asshole. Old habits die hard. And Type was a bit of an addict.

He pointed at the car. "The car, it's cool .”

Tharn looked at the Aston Martin parked behind him “Oh, this one?”

“That’s Thorn’s – he let me borrow it while I’m here.”

A while: a period of time that eventually ends.

“And how long is that?” His voice was clipped. It was his own fault for asking a question that he didn't want an answer to.

Tharn shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

"So you'll leave?"

Again. Just like before.

Tharn stared at Type, drowning in him like the first time, “It depends on the person I’m here for.”

“Who? P'Thorn? I've heard about the wedding.”

Tharn only smiled. “No. I think you know who I’m talking about.”

He blamed the way goosebumps jittered along his arms on the chilly winds.

"I really don't."

Tharn’s face broke down a little from the smile, "Oh, well." awkwardly he looked for words. “About Thanya, I'm sorry if she bothered you – she was supposed to be getting treatment here. I guess she heard about you… somehow.”

The weight on his chest must have pushed too hard. “It was you,” he blurted, “Thanya she said you talked about me. A lot”

Tharn froze, shoulders visibly tensing. His mouth parted slightly, as if were about to say something.

He stopped, changing his mind as he turned his back to him “it’s good to see you again, Type.”

“If something's on your mind, you should say it.”

Tharn paused a moment, looking behind his shoulder. “I’m stopping myself.”

There were many things Type has ignored in his life; his parents, Techno, even his professors. But today, it was his beating heart. “Then don’t.”

In grandiose gesture, he turned around, taking the step towards Type. He stood mere inches from him.

His breath was ragged. "I promised you I would come back when I was older. And here I am."

Type started into his eyes. Tharn's were searching for something in his. So desperate to see if they walked the same path, on middle ground.

Type's lips pursed. "You didn't come back for me, you came back for the wedd-"

"No, Type. It's you. I came back for _you_."

Type's face blanched, all these years, and Tharn still managed to have an effect on him. It frightened him.

His mouth was dry, "what do you want me to say to you, Tharn?"

Now, Type could see Tharn clearly, his jaw clenched in frustration. “I haven’t forgotten you. Not once,” his voice shook, “so, don’t – don’t make this so painful.”

"And do you think I have? You're everywhere. I can't forget what happened, Tharn. Ever"

His hands bunched at his sides as he looked into Tharn’s eyes.

Their heartbeats matched in rhythm. And only the stars watched as an age-old love story replayed.

“Why do you do this?"

“Do _what_ , Tharn?”

“I made a promise to you, and I thought I was ready to fulfill it. You just proved me wrong."

Type stilled.

"I can't forgive you. You know that."

Tharn took a step back. "I know. That's why I'll keep trying. Until _you're_ ready. Because I am. So wait for me, just a little longer."

Reality set in, and the noises started again.

“Tharn - ”

And just like that, he was left alone.

Again.

\- ✠ -

Techno stared at him.

“’No, he just _left_ me there on the stairs.”

Techno still hadn’t moved an inch since he’s sat on the barstool that night.

“Are you OK?”

Techno spat out his beer “I still haven’t moved on from you saying his name. And you’re telling me he wants _what_?”

He let out a breath, “I have no idea _what_ he wants - ”

Techno stopped him, “No, Type what I wanted to know is how world war three didn’t break out.”

“What do you mean?”

Techno looked amazed, “Well, no one would have expected that encounter to go the way it did, with the way you two, y’know, _stopped talking_. I mean ... it was intense.”

Though Intense was a light way of putting it, Techno never used the term ‘break up,’ because that’s not what happened, at least according to Type. They went their separate ways. Tharn to some music school in the States, and Type here – in Bangkok.

“I mean I get that they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I’m not sure if that’s what this is.”

Techno visibly startled to see Type invested in his words. “Then what is it?”

Techno shrugged, “oh, I’m not sure about that, you’d have to figure that out.”

“Dumbass,” Type spat as he whacked Techno’s head.

“ _Ai!_ That hurt.”

Techno rubbed at his head for a while, watching Type take shots. “I just think that you and him, shouldn’t play hardball like that. Hasn't he changed? Even just a little? It's been so long.”

“Huh?”

There was no use, Type was already tipsy.

“Who’s 'he'?” Type air quoted, playing coy with his slurred speech.

He rolled his eyes, “you know who I’m talking about.”

“You can say it, it’s a'ight.”

Techno looked around, whispering, “Are you sure?”

“Just say it.”

“Th-Tha-“

Type encouraged him, “go on.”

Techno mumbled something.

“What?”

“I’m nervous.”

Later, as Techno supported Type’s entire body weight on his shoulders, Type yelled about his woes like every other drunkard outside the club. His pockets were practicably empty, and Type only carried card.

“Shut up, Type – I’m looking for a way to get home.”

The motorbike taxi drivers offered rides, with discounts for the both of them. Techno really felt the pity. _“You can leave that one with me! I’ll get him home safe.”_

“Fuck no,” Techno grunted. “I did that once and I got _this_ bundle of sorrow for the next ten years.”

An uncle near the end of the street finally offered seventy baht for the full ride, extra for a stop.

Techno heaved a near unconscious Type into the back of the taxi. “You’d better be happy I’m your friend,” he whispered as he hopped into the back with him. “It was so embarrassing negotiating an amount like that.”

“It was,” Type agreed with closed eyes.

By the time they arrived at Type’s complex, the taxi meter was ticking well away.

Techno stuck his head out of the window. “You good from here? I’ve got to get back before the meter runs out.”

He nodded drowsily, stumbling out of the taxi.

Techno yelled out a rushed goodbye before he heard the car pull out.

Type struggled with his pockets, attempting to find his key card. “Where the fuck –“

 _Crunch_.

The sound came from behind him. Footsteps? They were footsteps.

A shadow cast over him, it was the silhouette of a man.

He turned his head, coming face to face with another man’s face. Type’s eyes dragged down to the metal bat in his hand.

“Can I help you?”

A man emerged from behind the telephone pole. And then another. And another, surrounding him.

There was a gang.

And Type was alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_**October 2020,** _  
_**Silom, Bangkok, Thailand** _

The first punch didn’t hurt as much as it should have.

That’s why Type struck the thug again.

He caught the second punch in his hand, holding him in place as he winded Type with a blow to the gut.

He wheezed as he slid against the wall. His vision blurred, but he could hear the two other men stumbling forwards, each with injuries of their own. Their metal bats scraped against the broken-up road. Fuck, Type scolded himself for the poor punches he had thrown, blaming the alcohol-induced sluggishness.

 _“Stop –”_ He rasped as one of the thugs tore off his watch. His head pounded and his chest heaved with the inescapable need to breathe.

A bat was raised above his head when a voice yelled from the end of the street.

“Hey! What are you doing!”

The three thugs turned their heads.

He watched a figure kick the two musclier thugs in the back of their knees, disabling them and sending them tumbling back to the ground.

 _“Come on guys, it’s three against one, that’s not a fair fight_ – punch – _is it?”_ The voice was masculine.

He heard little more of the scuffle that ensued, passing in and out of consciousness.

Type watched soon after as the cronies scrambled away, shouting slurs at the man.

_“Fuckheads! Get back here –”_

They shouted at the thug in front of Type to run away, yelling about how Type didn’t have anything valuable on him anyways.

The thug in front of Type visibly got nervous, breaking into a sweat. He was the lankiest of the trio, heeding the orders of his apparent superiors.

The figure then emerged from the darkness, illuminated by the building lights. The boy caught Type’s eyes for a split second before lunging forward, knocking the man in front of him to the side.

The thug fell unconscious after a hard jab to the temple with the boy’s elbow.

It was martial arts.

Type’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and finally, they shut.

He awoke to a frantic shaking of his shoulders. “Hey! Are you OK?”

Type saw the boy’s face closer, now. He was clearly younger than him, but perhaps not as young as he had first assumed. He had large eyes and tanned skin. The chocolatey whirls of hair made him look like an actor he had seen on an ad once. “Thank you,” Type rasped. Though he didn’t have much time to much else before he emptied his guts on the stairs beside him.

The boy pulled back, letting out a breath, “well, at least you’re fine.”

Type groaned, throwing his head back against the wall in exhaustion as he finished heaving. The boy had a phone to his ear, one foot holding the thug down.

“Hello? Yes. I’d like to report –”

With a newfound energy, Type leaped up, knocking the phone out of the boy’s hand. “What are you _doing_?” He hissed.

The boy looked at Type stunned, foot still pressing hard on the thug’s chest. “What do you mean? I’m calling the police.”

Type handed the phone back to him, once he was sure it was completely turned off. “Can you not? I have to go to work tomorrow and I was at a bar and just – It won’t look good, so don’t call the police.” There was a silent plea weaved in between his words and he hoped the boy caught onto it.

The boy raised a brow. “So, you don’t want to press charges on the guys that beat you up because you have work tomorrow?”

Type sighed, “I just think it’s trivial.”

The boy scratched the back of his head, loosening the press on the thug beneath him. “I mean, they’re kind of the _chao pho_ around here. You shouldn’t take them lightly.”

Type paused. “Wait – You know them?”

The boy shrugged, “they’re gangsters. I see ‘em at the ring sometimes.”

The ring? As in a boxing ring? The cogs in Type’s mind began to turn as he wondered exactly what type of guy he was talking to.

The boy was wearing a hoodie, taught around his body. The hood was pulled down at Type’s guarded stance. “And what type of gangsters are they?” He wearied.

“Robbers, mostly,” the boy returned Type’s watch, ultimately left behind after the numerous tumbles and scuffles. “They usually go for people in up in Bang Rak, but it looks like they’ve found a new area.”

Type fixed the piece back onto his wrist self-consciously.

“You should tell your landlord, at least. Or, y’know, it’ll happen again.”

“Uh huh.” Type murmured, a careless pair of sounds to appease him as he searched for the key card in his pockets.

“No. I mean, you really should.”

Type looked up, key card in hand. The boy’s face was solemn, shadows dancing across it with the shift of emotions.

“Either that or I’d have to kill him.”

A shiver ran up his spine. “Wh-what?” he managed.

The boy threw his head back and outright laughed. “You should have seen your face!”

Type’s face dropped, “Oh, fuck you.”

He reminded Type of a kid, the way he attempted recreating Type’s expression. “How old are you anyway? You look twelve.”

The boy scoffed, tongue pressing against his cheek. “With these muscles? Not a chance.” Cocky, Type thought. Though it made him smile for some reason.

“Thanks, for not calling the police.”

The boy’s lips twitched upwards, “it’s fine. I’m just glad I could help.”

Poster boy.

Type crooked his head at the thug writhing on the floor, “What are you doing with him?”

The boy flipped him up, supporting his weight on his shoulders. He made it look too easy, as if he were a sack of potatoes. And once again, Type questioned this boy’s origins.

“Oof – this one’s coming back with me, isn’t he?” The thug didn’t respond, head lolling to the side dumbly.

The boy looked at Type, “well, I’m gone now. Try not get beat up next time.”

Type stepped back. “I’ll try.”

In the reflection of the opening doors, as he jammed his key card into the slot, he watched the boy disappear, thug in tow.

_**1 Month Ago,** _  
_**Los Angeles, CA, USA** _

Tharn’s phone buzzed repeatedly on the nightstand. When his hand grabbed at it blindly, its screen lit up the small apartment, eliciting a series of groans from the men that shared it with him. They were still wasted from the night before. He reminisced as if he wasn’t still nursing a hangover.

One of his roommates threw a pillow at his head, hushed voice cursing at him to go back to sleep. Tharn knocked it back onto the floor, rubbing at his eyes as he tried to look at the notifications.

Three missed calls. All from the same number.

The Los Angeles traffic jammed his ears again as he stepped onto the fire escape by the window.

He chewed on his lower lip when he saw the contact name. It felt ominous, as if he were at a forked path. His train of thought was broken as it began ringing again. His thumb hovered over the answer button. Three calls, he reminded himself. He convinced himself that it was important.

He picked up. “Hello.”

A voice he hadn’t heard in a good while answered.

_“Nong? I was beginning to think you’d blocked me.”_

Tharn picked at the peeling pieces of paint on the railing. “Phi, why are you calling?” It sounded painful to his own ears. Asking his own brother why he was calling. He sounded ungrateful to the man who took him here, to the States.

There was a pause.

_“Guess what?”_

“What?”

_“I’m getting married.”_

A chunk of paint ripped off.

It caught Tharn off guard.

Thorn listened to the sound of Tharn’s breaths down the line. Static passed between the two as the clock ticked.

Tharn’s voice was quiet, “What time is it over there?”

_“It’s tomorrow.”_

“Then what day is ‘tomorrow’?”

Thorn let out a simple breath, recognising what Tharn was doing and letting him do it. He was distracting himself. _“Tuesday.”_

“Then its Monday here.” A bubble of silence engulfed the pair from opposite ends of the globe. And it stayed like that for a while. Not strange, or difficult. Just two siblings basking in what they had left of each other. Memories, mostly.

But it seemed that were to change.

“Do you like her?” Tharn finally asked.

Tharn could hear the smile in his brother’s voice, relief almost. _“She has a ring on her finger.”_

Tharn found himself smiling back. “Has she got a name?”

There was a pause from the other end. _“Do you want to come back and find out?”_

Tharn attempted pasting the paint peel back onto the railing. “You really want me at your wedding?” It was so despondent, having to ask a question like that. It almost defined their relationship of the gone years.

Thorn chuckled. _“I want you as my best man.”_

And at last, the paint fell back into place.

\- ✠ -

The family garden had become much more lively than it had once been.

The Pong-Pong tree had grown enormously, towering over onto the pool area. At every corner he passed, orange jasmines appeared. They were subtle, but it felt as if were a signature of some sort. All the flowers in the garden were definitely new, and too well-kept for his siblings to have planted.

“Did ma grow these?”

Thorn was covered in sweat and grime. All soiled from the young vegetable patch he was working on. His face looked older from where Tharn sat. Like a father’s face. His father’s face. It was expected, he supposed. The man was in his thirties now.

Tharn convinced himself not to become nostalgic over Thorn’s aging. Or make a joke about it, for that matter.

Thorn had begun implementing some form of sibling bonding strategy since he had arrived in Bangkok, attempting to shove several years of missed brotherhood into the span of his time here. Thorn was finding great joy in the activities he dragged Tharn into. Tharn, on the other hand, found a seat by the pool, watching his brother’s gardening skills. Of which, he had none.

Thorn finally set his tools down and followed Tharn’s line of sight. “Those ones? They’re Ploy’s.”

Ploy Saeueng. The soon-to-be wife.

“Oh. Does she like gardening or something?”

Thorn continued digging at the soil, earth wet from last night’s rain. “She’s a florist actually. She has her own shop.”

Tharn let his hand wade in the pool, creating ripples. “It must be good. One less cost for the wedding.”

Thorn hummed. “She’s Catholic, so we couldn’t just have it at the beach and that made it pretty expensive.” Thorn’s eyes grew big before quickly adding in, “ _not_ that it’s an issue because I love her.”

Tharn smiled. “I’m sure you do.” It was funny, seeing his brother like this. Speaking of love like a man. With maturity.

They continued talking about Thorn’s wedding plans and soon, his brother began ranting – not that anyone knew when he’d stop - about the country’s lack of churches.

Thorn whistled, “Dude, you have no idea how difficult it is to get a church, the waiting was nearly six months. We wanted one before monsoon season, but if we didn’t take this one – ” he grunted, pulling out a particularly stubborn weed in satisfaction. “We wouldn’t have a place at all.”

He looked at his brother for his thoughts. And apparently Tharn didn’t have face that displayed enough sympathy.

“ _Six_ months, Tharn.”

Tharn sighed, “Alright, I get it.”

Thorn looked at him, and the metaphoric clock stopped ticking as it hit one. “This is why you’ve got to take the chance when it’s there, or you’ll never get it at all.”

Tharn stared back at his brother. He wasn’t stupid. There were connotations behind his ominous words. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I heard you met Type.”

The clock started ticking again.

Tharn looked away. The Thirigun siblings couldn’t keep their mouth shut for shit.

“Why does it matter?”

Thorn sighed, moving his step stool closer to Tharn. “It matters a lot.”

Irritant, Tharn stood up. “I’m leaving.”

Thorn continued talking. “As much as you’ve convinced yourself that I’m the reason you came back, I think you know what you’re here for.”

“I’m not here for anything but your wedding.” Tharn bit out.

“Then why did I find three songs with Type’s name on it?”

Tharn tensed, eyes flicking to the side.

“How do you know that?”

Thorn threw his hands in the air. “See? He’s still in there,” he prodded a finger onto his head, “and you keep him there because you promised him something, and now you’re mad at yourself because you think you can’t fulfill it. Writing songs about it won’t fix you.”

Tharn found himself prickling at the way his brother psychoanalysed him. At the way that he knew so much. “You don’t know _shit_ about me anymore –”

“I was there when you cried, Tharn. I was there when you said you’d come back. Not for me, _your brother_ , but for _him_.”

Tharn saw his face in his brother’s eyes, reflecting a wounded expression.

“I can’t watch you become a shell of who you were and if he’s the reason you’re like this… then you’ve got to take a step forward or take a step back. And it seems you’re not all that interested in the latter. So… that’s all the advice I can give, I suppose.”

Tharn lips were downturned. “Why are you saying this to me?”

Thorn smiled, “I’m old now. I think It’s time I became a good brother to you.”

A thick silence enveloped them. Thorn let his brother contemplate in silence.

Tharn’s voice cracked. “I’ve been gone for too long, Phi,” he said at last.

Thorn placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve let time do its job, Tharn. It’s time for you to make a decision.”

Tharn flipped his head back after a while, looking a little too close into the sun. The smell of garden flowers encroached his scent. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.

\- ✠ -

Type whistled to himself as he walked the hallways of the hospital, keys swinging on his finger. It was quiet in the east wing, full of elderly patients that went to sleep early, it explained the bellowing snores from the rooms.

He crossed onto the bridge overpassing the parking lot below. It wasn’t congested tonight, though the sound of egrets squawking from the phone lines could be heard from every side of the building. It was a full moon tonight, so Type assumed that a good portion of people were at the temple. Even the lights had been switched off at the entrance stairs. It was different.

Different from the night he had met Tharn.

He came to a stop as a figure emerged ahead of him.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

On the other end of the bridge, he saw Tharn.

Type stared at him. He gave himself four seconds of raw indulgence before he continued walking.

Tharn stood still as he passed him. He smelt nice.

Then, he caught the cuff of Type’s coat.

“Don’t.” he yanked his hand away as he were fire.

Tharn didn’t look the least bit offended. Key word: look. “I asked you to wait for me.”

“And I told you I wouldn’t.” His voice was trim, cold as ice.

“No, what you did was cry.” Tharn had fallen back into his forgotten style, arguing with Type logically was impossible. One had to speak his language.

“Fuck you.”

Tharn sighed. “I told you I’d come back when I was older.”

Type let out a short laugh. “Mature, Tharn. I told you to come back when you were more mature,” he eyed him, “and look at how well that’s working out.”

“Stop acting so stuck up and talk to me.”

“I _am_ talking to you.” He seethed.

“So, tell me why you turn away all my efforts to get you back. I’m back. You’re here. So –”

“So why aren’t I ready for you to come back into my life?” He countered in spite. A floodgate had broken.

“Because I did wait for you!” Type exploded.

“For _seven_ years, I waited for you.”

Type’s breaths were ragged as he stared at him. “Don’t you think a person gets tired of that?”

Tharn’s voice was low, the pain on Type’s face guilding him. “No. Because I know you and I know me. We _can’t_ get tired of each other.”

And Tharn was right. He never got tired of Tharn. Every drunk stupor, loose-lipped moment. It was always about Tharn.

Tharn, Tharn, Tharn.

What he got tired of was the waiting. The lost hope.

“But it that were true, Tharn, why did we stop?”

He remembered the day they had walked away from each other. It had rained.

_**Seven Years Ago,** _  
_**Bangkok, Thailand** _

_A vase smashed, emptying its flowery guts onto the floor._

_Tharn stepped back. It was a welcoming gift from his mother._

_“Type – what are you – just_ stop _!”_

_Type whipped his head around from where he was shoving Tharn’s clothes into a suitcase. His face was flushed with anger and his teeth grit when he shoved Tharn hard against the chest._

_“Stop?” He hissed. “I’m just helping you pack, Tharn.”_

_With each word, he took more and more pieces from their wardrobe, sending them flying across the room._

_“I’m not leaving forever,” Tharn tried. “Please just think about what you’re doing right now.”_

_Type ignored him, thudding around their apartment, pulling at his hair._

_Lightning struck. The lights went out and simultaneously, something in Type broke._

_“You don’t have to go to America. You could be happy here.”_

_“It’s just two semesters at UCLA, Type. And I’ll visit, remember.”_

_Type’s voice was quiet. “If it weren’t for me, you’d stay there forever, right?”_

_Tharn took a step towards him. “I wanted to go to America because of you. So we could live better.”_

_Type gave him a hard stare. “No, what you did was choose for me – you want a life in America because you want to chase your dreams. None of that is for me.”_

_Tharn groaned. “Life is easier there, Type. It’s easier for us to –”_

_“What? It’s easier for a man to love another man over there? It’s the same shit, Tharn, just different languages.”_

_He pulled Type back against his chest. “You’re acting like I didn’t ask you to come with me.”_

_Type writhed in his hold. “So I’ll ask you again, come with me, right now. Or join me later, whatever you want. We can be together.”_

_Type felt a sob wrack his body. He felt weak. Numb, even. “No.” He breathed, looking into Tharn’s eyes through the wardrobe mirror – the only think lighting the apartment. “You’re coming back here. One year, and you’ll be back.”_

_“Promise me that you’ll come back,” Type whispered._

_Tharn smiled, heart breaking. It was as if he knew something were about to come to an end._

_“And promise me that you’ll wait.”_

_And Type didn’t answer. Not until long after Tharn had shut the door and taken his suitcases._

_“I will.”_

One year turned to seven. And their relationship became something of a time gone by. Because time changed people.

But perhaps it hadn’t changed them.

Tharn’s voice became quiet. “You know why I wanted to take you there.”

Type leaned against the railing. “I get it. You wanted a better life for me.” He rolled his head to the side, eyes never leaving Tharn. “But you made that decision _for_ me. You thought that the place was what made the life, Tharn. But you were what made me happy. And I wish you would have recognised that sooner.”

Tharn took a step towards him.

“And that’s how I knew.”

Type had become accustomed to him, not wavering when he came so close his nose was filled with the scent of his thick cologne. “Knew what?”

They were still eyelevel, and yet Tharn found a way to make himself taller. “That I was ready to come back into your life.”

Type pushed himself further onto the railing. “I finally understood why you didn’t need America. You needed me, and where we were didn’t matter. So that’s why I’m back in Bangkok, for us.”

“I’m sorry that it took me that long to realise.”

That night, their story continued writing itself.

Type snorted. A bout of laughter slipping from his lips. He knew that the moment was serious, but something about Tharn coming back into his life had him feeling a bliss he thought he had forgotten about.

“You are pretty dense sometimes.”

Tharn smiled orange slice wide, more ecstatic than he could let on. “I’ll take that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my twitter for updates! @snowgcix


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